Oil and Wood Shavings
by mcfuz
Summary: "Seriously, Cas," Dean was saying. "How do you even drive this thing?" / Reverse!verse: includes hunter!Cas, angel!Dean and the beginnings of the Impala. Angst.


**Oil and Wood Shavings**

* * *

"You can't be serious, Cas."

Castiel jerked on the steering wheel, almost sending him crashing into the oncoming traffic. "Jesus Christ!"

"Actually, it's just me," Dean replied from the passenger seat where he'd appeared not two seconds ago. Castiel spared him a glance, still not fully believing it; an _angel of the Lord_ in an old leather jacket, ripped skinny jeans and Docs? If he didn't know better, he'd say he was still in Hell, tripping on some messed up dream while Alistair decided what scrap of skin he'd paint on next. Castiel's fingers tightened unconsciously on the wheel as he recalled those forty years in the Pit…but he wouldn't dwell on it. Couldn't.

Dean was speaking again, and Castiel forced himself to listen. 70s rock god look be damned, the guy was still an angel, and Castiel remembered all too well Pamela's burned out eye sockets. Dean was not someone (something?) you wanted to piss off. "Seriously, Cas," Dean was saying. "How do you even drive this thing?"

Castiel glanced over to find those disconcertingly green eyes fixed in his direction. "What - the car?" he asked confusedly.

"If you can call this a car," Dean snorted, casting an appraising eye on the dusty dash, cracking upholstery and taped windows. "Because I sure as hell can't."

Castiel bristled. "Well, I'm sorry we don't drive a classic Mustang, or whatever you deem worthy of being called 'a car,' Dean."

"You should be," the angel agreed, Castiel's sarcasm going over his head like it always did. "But I can fix that." Dean reached over the gearstick and, before Castiel even had time to think about protesting, grazed the hunter's forehead with the soft pads of his fingers and whisked them both away in the time it took to blink.

Castiel jerked involuntarily as he suddenly found himself in the passenger seat of a big black muscle car that Dean was driving. Castiel recognised the strains of Kansas' _Carry On Wayward Son_ in the background, only because Dean hummed it under his breath half the time they were together. An "oh my God" slipped from the hunter's lips, and the angel smirked.

"That's just goddamn blasphemous, Cas," he drawled, grinning from where he sat behind the wheel. "Really, you should know better."

"Where the hell are we?" Castiel demanded, only just refraining from punching the angel's idiotic grin, and only because he knew Dean wouldn't be hurt by it in the slightest.

"Same place as we were before," Dean answered with a shrug. "Just upgraded the mode of transport a little." He patted the leather seat lovingly, his fingers only inches away from Castiel's, and when the hunter jerked his hand away (no, he hadn't been thinking about the perfect half-crescents of the angel's nails), Dean fixed him with an unreadable gaze. "'67 Chevy Impala," he said suddenly, bringing his hand back up to the steering wheel. "You're welcome."

Castiel took the time to examine the car further (anything to stop himself from counting the freckles that dotted Dean's right cheek, jaw and neck). The interior smelled like oil and, strangely, wood shavings. It wasn't a scent Castiel would have ever said appealed to him, but that was before and this was now, and to be honest, he liked it. Of course, the stellar condition of the car's insides and probably its exterior too begged an obvious question. "Where in the world did you get a 1967 classic car, Dean? Someone's sure as hell going to miss it, I can tell you that."

"Nah," the angel said. "Was just sitting in a storage garage, gatherin' dust. Old guy who owns it is currently on life support." Castiel saw Dean shoot him a quick glance. He busied himself with staring out the window. "Won't be driving it any time soon."

"I don't want to drive a stolen car, Dean," Castiel said bluntly, still gazing out the window. The car was _so _not the problem here (his hands were sweaty and he was sure Dean could hear how fast his heart was beating and _this should not be happening_), but it wasn't like he was going to acknowledge that fact.

"Relax, Cas," the angel laughed, though the sound fell flat in the suddenly too-small car. "I swapped the plates when I fixed her up. And it's not like you're actually driving at the moment, y'know. Just enjoy the fuckin' ride."

"Do all angels have as colourful a vocabulary as you, or is it just you?" Castiel rolled his eyes as Dean gave him a wink. The stifling atmosphere of the car diffused somewhat. Castiel could almost pretend it was back to normal - however normal it could be, that was, with a hunter of the supernatural and an angel of the lord sharing a magically stolen Chevy. "Do you even know where I'm going?"

"Hotel, dude," Dean said with an eye roll. "_Duh_. Not like you're gonna skip town without Jimmy."

Castiel shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his twin brother, who'd been off ever since he'd first popped up out of the ground. "What am I meant to tell him about this, anyway?" he asked gesturing to the car.

Dean shrugged. "The truth? What's so hard to believe about an angel hooking you up with a sweet ride after you were brought back from _the dead_, for Chrissakes?"

Castiel let out a sharp bark of laughter, though the situation seemed far from amusing. He ignored the tightness in his chest when he met Dean's (green green green) eyes. "Jimmy doesn't believe half the things I tell him about you, Dean. Maybe more. He's what you'd call 'devout.' He thought I was messing with him when I said angels wore leather jackets and swore like sailors."

Dean licked his lips then, slowly, and Castiel didn't even want to dwell on how that made him feel. The angel pulled over onto the side of the road and killed the engine, breathing in deeply. He let his hands fall into his lap. "Just because I wear jeans and listen to Kansas and like classic cars," he said finally, softly, like he was giving up a secret, "Doesn't mean I'm any less an angel than those douche bags who wear white and shove the 'word of God' down everybody's throats, whether they want it or not." Dean broke off. He looked pained, and without even thinking, Castiel reached out and laid a hand across his cheek.

"Why _are_ you so different, Dean?" he whispered, voice catching because _surely _they hadn't been sitting so close together before. "Was it Hell?" he said in an even quieter voice, admitting the fears he'd developed since Dean had appeared so unceremoniously in that shed, claiming to be _the one who dragged your sorry ass outta Hell, chuckles. _"Was it you dragging me out of Hell?"

Dean held his gaze for an infinity of infinities, a delirium of seconds and minutes and hours. His lips parted, and words hovered like rain preparing to spill over from the clouds, and Castiel leaned closer, and _Dean _was everywhere, all at once -

Until he was nowhere, and Castiel tumbled forward into empty air, realising that the intoxicating smell of oil and wood hadn't come from the car at all, but had been Dean all along.

_Carry on my wayward son_, Kansas sighed from the radio, _there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more_.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Figures my first SPN fic is both Destiel and reverse!verse. Oh, and angsty. Gotta love that angst. Review?


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